


The heart speaks in whispers

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bruce Springsteen References, Extraordinary amounts of fluff, Fluff, Francesco Petrarca References, M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Walt Whitman References, here have some fluff in these trying times, they're soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23320765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: “Are you all right, angel?”, asked Crowley, drawing small circles on his temple. His voice was cautious and fond, affection dripping from it.“Marvellous, dear.”, Aziraphale purred, eyes closed. “Even if, when you said you wanted to take me to bed, I admit I've imagined something else...”Crowley chuckled, scratched his ear. He was calm, serene as he never was in Aziraphale's presence.“Well, y'know, after just six thousand years,” he said that stretching the words, hissing a bit around the s, “I don't think I'm ready for the big step. But we have another six thousand years for that, don't we?”"And even more, my darling."Some shared memories, a song, some poetry. 2+k of fluff I have no excuses for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	The heart speaks in whispers

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Crowley recites is Francesco Petrarca's Erano i capei d'oro a l'aura sparsi, of which you can find an English translation [here](http://www.planck.com/rhymedtranslations/petrarcherano.htm).   
> Written for this week's COW-T M6, prompt "Whispers of the heart".   
> ([You can find me on Tumblr! :D](http://bebrave-andbekind.tumblr.com))

Michelangeli's version of Brahm's _Paganini Variations_ in the background, London voiceless, the lightbulb radiating an orange and buttery light. Aziraphale was about to suggest candles, but it was too soon after the fire, and Crowley didn't even want to think about a source of light that wasn't artificial. Aziraphale even got rid of matches.

(he had dreamed about fireplaces for the longest time. It was something silly, something frivolous, but it was the best part of living on Earth amongst humans, all the superficial aspects, all that wanting and longing. Not everything had to have a deep meaning; sometimes it was just about a cup of perfectly hot tea in the winter, rain just when the plants were drying up, a smile from a stranger on the streets after a long day at work, a ten pounds bill on the pavement when you're short on money for your kid's lunch. He was an impatient creature most of the time, used to just snap his fingers and have what he wanted in the blink of an eye, but sometimes – just sometimes, he waited until they'd baked a new batch of his favourite pastry, until the day a book actually would come out to go to a meet and greet with the author. And sometimes – just sometimes – he would leave Earth for a while, floating in a universe in which he and Crowley lived together, exchanging goodnight kisses in front of a fireplace.)

Crowley was carding his fingers through his angel's hair, slowly and carefully, never in the same way, as if he didn't want any strand of hair feeling neglected. Aziraphale was breathing deeply, as calm as a lake in the summer, relaxed in a way he didn't know it was possible.

“Are you all right, angel?”, asked Crowley, drawing small circles on his temple. His voice was cautious and fond, affection dripping from it.

(It was a Wednesday, shortly before Christmas, when a thought – a realization, a bright new world – hit Aziraphale behind his head. Crowley was dusting the books, grumbling about it. Aziraphale looked at him, saw him naked – no skin, no bones, no secrets.

“You love me.”

Crowley, who, for the first time had decided not to wear his glasses around Aziraphale, didn't flinch even for a second. He kept on dusting as if nothing happened, as if he wasn't exploding inside and, almost, outside. “What?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale said again, his tone more certain,

“Yeah, and the sky is blue,” Crowley managed to say before changing into his snake form and slithering under the couch. Something bloomed where he had been standing just a moment before; its smell tickled Aziraphale's nose – cherries, dust from old church bells. His world had shifted so suddenly, so unexpectedly – no warnings, no strong-worded notes – that he felt like a trunk had fallen on his head, like something had cracked him open, sucked all of his bones out.

Aziraphale breathed in, and marched towards the couch, when he could sense Crowley whimpering; he crouched beside it, waiting for Crowley to come out. He waited almost two hours, during which Crowley just hissed something intelligible, moving in circles.

“You don't get to be so brazen about it, angel,” he lamented at some point, when the sun was starting to set. “S' not fair.”

Aziraphale sighed, almost inaudible. He wasn't, but at some point after the nonpocalypse, when the world had returned to its usual chaos and usual, fake stillness, he had decided that there was no point in panicking. At the time it had been about his favourite pair of slippers being out of production, but he thought it could be useful now, the not panicking thing.“I know, dear. Would you like to come out and talk about it?”

“No.”

“Very well. It's fine.” It really wasn't, but it was alright. Crowley needed his time; and, he realized, it was only just. “We can stay like this a little longer, I think. Just let me get a book.”

“No!”

“No?”

“Don't get up. Just miracle it in your hands. Don't wanna you to –“ he spluttered, hissed again a bit, “don't wanna.”

Aziraphale smiled. He tapped once on the floor, as to confirm his presence to Crowley. A book appeared on his lap, and he started to read. The night went on like this, until he felt Crowley's little serpentine head nudging against his feet, whilst London, outside, was waking up.

“Are you ready?”

“Not yet,” he sheepishly replied, curling up at his side, immediately falling asleep.

Crowley lived as a snake for a week, napping under the couch for almost twenty hours a day, like a very lazy cat. And then, when he eventually changed back, Aziraphale was waiting for him, no alcohol in sight.

“I take it you're ready, dear?”

“I'm not. But I'm also not... not ready. It will be long, angel.”

Aziraphale bit a biscuit. “All the time in the world, remember?”

Crowley surely did, and that was what was frightening him. No excuses for rushing, for cutting it short. They could be there for years, and he couldn't run away. So he just sighed, squared his shoulders, and sat down in front of Aziraphale. He could sense him, waves of crystal blue turmoil.

“So,” started Crowley, “we're here to talk.” He was stiff, seemed even more wiry than usual.

“Yes.”

“I talk, you listen. You talk, I listen.”

“It's the usual way for a conversation to happen, yes.”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth twice, as if he was hoping words would come out without any effort on his part – because he had rehearsed that conversation over and over again so many times in his head that he was sure Aziraphale would have been able to understand without a sound. Unfortunately it wasn't the case.

“It will be long,” he said at last, eyes huge, gold melted in the round of his irises.

They both were keeping their hands for themselves, even if they were itching to touch each other, to finally caress and stroke and grope and _feel_ the other under their fingertips.

“We both have quite a lot to say, I presume.”

Aziraphale was pretty sure about how he looked like to Crowley – composed and tranquil, like a summer day in the Sussex countryside. But he was feeling rather like an old, cracked lighthouse in the middle of a storm.

“Yeah, you presume well,” replied Crowley. He crossed his legs on the chair, then decided against it, then crossed them again. He inhaled.

They talked.)

“Marvellous, dear.”, Aziraphale purred, eyes closed. “Even if, when you said you wanted to take me to bed, I admit I've imagined something else...”

Crowley chuckled, scratched his ear. He was calm, serene as he never was in Aziraphale's presence.

“Well, y'know, after just six thousand years,” he said that stretching the words, hissing a bit around the s, “I don't think I'm ready for the big step. But we have another six thousand years for that, don't we?”

Aziraphale kissed his palm, pressing his lips for a few seconds, as if he wanted to leave a mark. There was a soundless music thumping in his chest, between his lungs. He could hear it inside Crowley's bones. “And even more, my darling. You know I love you?”, he said, a smile blooming on his face. He felt his skin soften around his jaws, his chin. He had shifted a little, ended up facing Crowley: he reached for him, stroked his cheek with his thumb, the other fingers resting on the sharp line of his mouth, his chin. Crowley was so beautiful; a memory caught on fire in his brain – how beautiful Crowley had ever been. It wasn't something Aziraphale had always known, not consciously at least; he knew Crowley was shaped to tempt, to inspire lust, as all demons were. (he had often asked himself how his corporation was when he was an angel; was his hair still red? Were his eyes still golden? He hoped it was. Was his figure plumper? But he was happy about how thin Crowley was now, his wrists the perfect size for Aziraphale's fists.) But he remembered one time, when they were in Nigeria and Crowley was swimming in a lake; the sun was shining on his skin, specks of light playing on his wet hair. Aziraphale thought it was the first time he had really understood was humans meant by lust, how they gave it so much power. He found himself desperate to touch his flat stomach, to suck a bruise on his hip.

(Crowley was presenting female, during that time, but his face was still sharp, his body angular; he had been a teacher for orphans, some voluntary work he luckily hadn't had to explain to Hell. They weren't really keeping an eye on him, too busy with the spreading of the cholera. Miss Judith Crowley, however, stubbornly insisted that she had taken so many orphans under her wings with the grater evil in mind. “The more brats learn to read and write, the more ruckus they will create against the bloody unjust government of this bloody rat's nest, once adults,” she said when Aziraphale, visiting her home, cheekily inquired. She was quite proud of herself and her paper-thin excuse. “Isn't that right, Thomas?”, she asked a kid at her side, who was painstakingly trying to write his name on a slate. The child was missing an hand, and his shirt was probably white, once. He quickly looked at her, then turned back on his task, but scooted nearer his teacher, his head against her arm. Crowley smiled, and kissed him on the top of his head. “Thank you, dear, I can always count on you.” Crowley went to the children's employers and paid them double the children's salary to give them a day off and a chance to learn. “Good, darling, you're really improving. There's only a small error here: do you remember how the t is written? I can give you two clues, if you want.”

The child was looking at her again, this time with huge, shining eyes. He was missing a front tooth too. He concentrated on Crowley's voice, her hands as she traced the letters on the slate.

And how perfect she was, how tender. Her cheeks were glowing, her skin was scattered with freckles, and he profoundly wanted to count them, kiss all of them.

 _Oh, God,_ he thought. Only that.)

“Really?”, replied Crowley, a small smile cracking on his mouth, somehow still insecure. He started to graze Aziraphale's waist, playing a bit on his stomach. Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley had always known what lust was, in theory at least; hadn't really felt it until his angel had started kissing him everywhere – hands, neck, ears, curve of the shoulders, lines of the collarbones when he slid a finger in his t-shirt, stretching the neckline a bit. He thought lust was a beating mess, black and purple as a bruise, sticky and scorching, uncomfortable like petrol on a seagull's wings; it was a beating thing, yes, but it was red coloured, the loveliest shade of red, and full of bubbles, like a strawberry soda.

“As if you don't know that.” Aziraphale kissed his chin.

“Well, humour me. Suppose I don't really know. Say it again.”

Aziraphale took one of Crowley's hand in his, started playing with his fingers, kissed the tips. He cleared his throat, and started singing.

“ _I got a dollar in my pocket, there ain't a cloud up above, I got a picture in a locket that says baby I love you_...”

A laugh erupted from Crowley's throat, as rich as red wine. How lovely it was, the privilege of hearing Crowley's laugh reverberating around the room. “Really, angel? _All that Heaven will allow_?”

“And even more than that. _Rain and storm and dark skies, well now they don't mean a thing if you got a girl that loves you and who wants to wear your ring._..”

“Not a girl,” snickered Crowley. “You're finally admitting we're in the 21st century, at last?”

“I might have found something of value in this age, yes. _Now some may wanna die young man, young and gloriously, get it straight now mister, hey buddy that ain't me, 'cause I got something on my mind that sets me straight and walkin' proud, and I want all the time, all that heaven will allow_.”

“And even more.”

“And even more. Now I hope you're sure about how much I love you.”

“Mmh...”, Crowley curled his lips, pretending to think about it. “Not sure. Do you have something else to prove it?”

“Well, how about you prove it?”

“Me? I've been pining for you for six thousand years.”

“But I didn't know that, so how can I be completely sure?”

“ _Erano i capei d’oro a l’aura sparsi che ’n mille dolci nodi gli avolgea_ ,” started Crowley, his accent so perfectly Italian it startled Aziraphale, flooding him with memories (the gondolas in Venice, the delectable taste of cherries in a town near Modena, the Uffizi Museum and how he and Crowley playing at pointing out who they actually had met, and how some artists had been more than generous with some of those faces and bodies) “ _e ’l vago lume oltra misura ardea di quei begli occhi, ch’or ne son sì scarsi; e ’l viso di pietosi color’ farsi, non so se vero o falso, mi parea: i’ che l’esca amorosa al petto avea, qual meraviglia se di sùbito arsi? Non era l’andar suo cosa mortale, ma d’angelica forma; e le parole sonavan altro, che pur voce humana. Uno spirto celeste, un vivo sole fu quel ch’i' vidi: e se non fosse or tale, piagha per allentar d’arco non sana._ ”

Tears started welling up in Aziraphale's open wide eyes, as Crowley's voice was dripping honey on his nose, on his lips. He hid his face in Crowley's stomach, wrinkling himself up in a comma.

“You just put 'poems for old fools' in the Google” even if he was sniffling he couldn't resist the absolute unnerving way in which he said googling, knowing perfectly well what that meant but nevertheless used his old expression just to spite Crowley, “and picked up the first result. You're horrible, you know how much I love poetry. I take it back, I hate you.”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley cooed, “my poor angel. What a terrible life you're destined to, having your completely whipped personal demon who memorizes love poems for you. I'd leave England for good if I were you. Start a new life in a monastery on the Alps, surrounded by goats.”

“I despise goats,” grumbled Aziraphale. In Mesopotamia a goat kicked him in the face, while another ate his last mango. He swore they were laughing as they did it.

“Then you have no choice but to live with me, even if you hate me,” he added with a fake sadness that nevertheless worried Aziraphale.

“Oh, I don't really hate you, Crowley!”, he gasped. He sat on his lap, taking his demon's face in his hands. “I could never, ever hate you. I hope you know that.”

Crowley took one of his wrists, gently kissing on the pulse point. “I'm starting to believe you.”

Aziraphale smiled, resting his forehead against Crowley's. “I love you so dearly.”

“ _Happiness, not in another place but this place..._ ”, he kissed Aziraphale, a hand behind his head, the other on his heart, “ _not for another hour, but this hour_.”

They kissed again, and again and again and again, as the music melted into silence, the soundless London turned back into herself one more time. All was right in the world.


End file.
